Feb 14, 2021
I Love Dogs
Like you, I love dogs
and the smell of coffee in the morning
and the taste of yellow-green bananas.
I like the sound of us
and the window paints a picture of King’s
Blue Deep meaning with puffy clouds.
With you I look for comfort in beauty –
I aim at the everlasting.
And the walls of our home will be extra pale
to complement the paintings. I love dogs,
and I love that you love dogs too.
What is it going to be like, to build a home together?
Jan 30, 2018
Because only so many words can describe
Even the littlest things that we share.
Azul is the abiding color of our mornings – and evenings
Until you touch me, undress me in iridescent pink, and
To our delight we become instinctively wonderful.
I am glad to see me in your eyes, my lips are
Full of you; they taste plump, sweet, and
Unconditional
Lull me into this rhythm. Make of your ribs a cage for me.
May 29, 2019
Take Me
dissolve me
into milk and
honey, and
pour
a glass
of me
into
a place
with warm grey colored
mountains of clay covered in petals,
and a thousand little birds will visit and feed, and
what is left of me will learn magic, should it learn to be itself.
February 6, 2019
The First Butterfly
Must’ve been a flower who fell in love with the sun,
she practiced flying in her dreams and kissed him.
To impress the sun, the flower pictured herself serenading
her way to mountain tops where he could hear her and see her
laying open and honest on a rock.
Her desire permeated. She wanted to be touched
– while flying –
like were a bird, a bee, or a bat.
The flower consulted other flowers whose unqualified
counsel led to exhausting, life-threatening attempts.
Attempts that only she enacted, anyway.
But she was industrious! And her nights had become quiet
and intense, and she begun to dream many dreams –
none of which involved flying, anymore.
She became imperfectly symmetrical like humans are:
two petals, two leaves, and a pair of filaments stayed put in her pistil.
She became light and dry, and what leaves and petals remained from her efforts
were now covered in brightly colored scales.
Her scantiness made her absurd and beautiful.
On the last morning of her season,
the flower found her receptacle stemless.
She was laying atop her neighboring flowers
whose countless petals had begun a dance.
It was a cloudless morning, and
she swiftly being
moved and while herself watched.
Softly feeling She surrendered.
And the wind murmured: “You are delicate and dear but not longer to the ground. It is my desire to see a flower fly.”
August, 2017
Curtains
Emerald green you are
Old
And your scent is that of
Red velvet.
Madeleine
The sight of grey rabbits running across
the paths, and through the green grass of a park, late
this night as I biked home, have
conjured up an image —
a memory
that belongs to me as a child and anyways
I was lying flat on the ground resting in the front yard
of an uncle’s home. There,
I learned that rabbits
are always fucking.
This report came to me through my uncle, who
sat, with his belly in his lap and whose extravagantly thick eyebrows and kind wife made one feel forever
welcome in their home, empty
as it was
except for the children but, the grass of his
yard was also green, and the walls of his home were of naked
cement, like the walkways and the paths.
This uncle with his wife,
children,
and a perennially pregnant grey rabbit,
was poor.
27, October 17
To Misericordia
Is that where all your things have gone — and
had they not left you in the company of flowers,
would you have complained?
I offered little in the way of impressions after the alarm
rang randomly. But I was four, and it was said to me that you were made ‘in His likeness’
And that statement left me completely nonplussed, and
embarrassed.
I think of the absurd intimacy of the drawings I made
on the occasion because no one spoke to me about them;
they thought it an unkind gesture to imagine He would
want to pee from that cross.
But these things seemed natural to me.
And in your house things were transfigured, too —
unowed, some of them began to look extraordinary.
And what of the clock, candlelight, and tablecloth —
would the crystal drops like to remain? Tell me,
I think they would, even if they have to say goodbye too, eventually. Because these things shine, and things that shine matter to you
but ‘they are not good enough’ you said, and then I said:
These things thought themselves relevant, and in a particular order of things, they were. But they thought themselves being so because they glittered, like your eyes: hazel and black.
‘And what an absurd comparison!’ - And do you know that glitter and gold have gone out of fashion, and that your parrot no longer remembers himself?
It would have seemed an exaggeration, had he spoken at your
burial — Roberto, like a ringmaster’s announcement, would have sounded silly.
‘And what about the cushions, can they be brought to me?
They were made of pink satin.’
September 19, 2017
You Speak of Trust
Do you remember that dream I had?
In it, I had began to write a play about a boy
a boy who thought himself having no talent but,
who wished to teach himself—
how to write poetry and prose.
You speak of trust while waiting for me
to tell you that which you think I am avoiding
by telling you of my dream with the talentless boy.
But listen,
In it, there was a long wooden table
with books on it, one of them was red and contained
a struggle: the first page of my play, and all the other pages
were pale.
The table and its books were inside a home
of unfamiliar settings, large rooms, intense white
walls, large window panes, and light. There was a gallery in it.
A gallery of artworks — some
were mine, some of them were rotting.
There was a leak in the ceiling, and there wasn't a you in it.
My partner,
This place with the table,
the books, the first page of my play,
and all the works created, all this was his.
August 2, 2017
Today as I Was in the Library
I got distracted, or
I am guessing something caught me
unaware while I was perfectly
absorbed in whatever material
I was reading. It happened when—
one of my two hands fell
on my chest and
I sensed my heart beating, hard.
And my body remembered you, as I remember you.
At once, a current of desire rushed
to enter my mouth, I tasted it.
It turned to water in my tongue filling
the back and corners of my throat.
But I am porous, so it escaped—
somehow, and from my neck it moved
swiftly to my back, from where it con-
tinued to travel to my breasts.
I touched it there,
caressed it because it had been coming,
gathering, about to burst as
if from a lift hill when it stopped
at the tip of my nipples, and
down it moved when gravity took over
passing through my belly and its
Button
to find the center of me that misses the center of you.
My hips clenched it, they squeezed
it, as they do. I did not want
it to leave me, but gratefully
I am porous, so before it fell
plump to the ground, it came
back and in it stayed.
August 19, 2017
Something Ephemeral
A sentiment that blooms
into tenderness to then morph into
nothingness
Into a memory, perhaps—
this is no parental love, or that of siblings and
of friends.
It is love that dies
like an orchid that forgot itself and the words
imagined
No not imagined, precipitated.